"The usual reason-security," said Smith, then hung up.
Since he was in a good mood, Remo didn't rip out the pay telephone at Logan Airport. Instead, he went to catch his flight, knowing that the superefficient Smith had already booked him on the cheapest air carrier known to man.
Presenting himself at the Friendly Air reservations desk, Remo said, "I'm Remo. You have a ticket for me?"
The clerk looked him up on his monitor, and asked, "Remo Bozzone?"
"If that's what it says," said Remo, who often got his cover surname from people not in the loop. He had been Remo Williams most of his life. Until the electric chair.
"What was that?" asked the clerk.
"Remo Bozo. That's me."
"Bozzone."
"That's me, too," said Remo cheerfully, fishing out a driver's license at random and flashing it with his thumb over the last name.
The clerk saw that the face matched and the first name was the same, so he didn't push the issue. "Good news, sir," he said brightly.
"I have a crash-proof plane?"
"No. We're bumping you up to first class."
Remo's face fell. "No way. Stick me in coach."
"But there's more leg room in the first-class cabin."
"My legs fold just fine."
"It's free."
"I'm not paying for this. My employer is."
"Complimentary drinks," the clerk coaxed.
"I can get distilled water in coach. Alcohol and I parted company a million years ago."
Remo now had the bored reservation clerk's interest.
"What's wrong with first class?"
"The stewardesses have way too much time on their hands," said Remo with a straight face.
The clerk looked at Remo as if Remo was John Wayne Gacy come back from the grave. Remo looked back as if he were John Wayne come back from his grave to deal harshly with his namesake.
In the end, the clerk sniffed and said, "We have no seats available in coach. Will you take a later flight?"
"No time. Is there a place that sells luggage in this terminal?"
"Try the main concourse."
"Fine. Give me the ticket."
Boarding pass in hand, Remo went to a gift shop, picked through the luggage until he found a tan leather carryon with a tiny, keyed padlock and purchased it using his Remo Itri credit card.
"It's one of our finest bags," the gift-shop manager said, handing back the card and receipt.
"1 only care about the lock," said Remo, taking the padlock and the tiny wire keyring with its two flat keys and walking out.
The manager called after Remo. "Sir, what about your bag?"
"Keep the change," said Remo.
Going to a men's room, Remo took the padlock hasp between two fingers and began rubbing it vigorously. After a moment, the metal began to thin and elongate until the U shape of the hasp was longer and thinner than manufacturer's specs. When it was long enough to do the job, Remo ran the end through the square hole in his zipper tongue and hooked it in an up position with his belt buckle. Then he locked it with a tinny snick.
Separating the keys, he slipped one in his Italian loafer under his bare foot and the other in one pocket of the tan chinos and hoped the metal detector wouldn't go off.
It didn't.
Already it was a good day.
The flight to Minneapolis had only one hitch. The usual. A stewardess with short russet hair and green eyes like happy emeralds rested her gaze on Remo's trim, 160-pound body, his overthick wrists and the strong planes of his not-too-handsome face and used a line Remo had been hearing from stewardesses for the best part of his adult life.
"Coffee, tea or me?"
This one smiled. Many didn't. Some wore pleading or hopeful expressions. Others actually wept. And one memorable bleached blonde turned their encounter into an unmistakable cry for help by jamming her TWA letter opener into her throbbing jugular and threatening to take her life right there in the center aisle if Remo was brute enough to give an ungentlemanly response.
"I don't drink any of those things," said Remo this time.
The redhead wasn't taking no for an answer. Redheads, Remo had long ago discovered, rarely did.
"But you don't know how I taste," she said plaintively.
"You taste like a redhead. I've tasted lots of redheads. And I'm in a stark, raving blonde mood today. Sorry."
Without missing a beat, the redhead whistled up an ash blond flight attendant from the back of the plane.
They huddled. The blonde, listening attentively, looked at Remo with eyes like small blue explosions of pleasure and nodded animatedly.
They stormed back, the redhead taking point.
"Can you come with us to the first-class galley, sir?" she asked with breathy politeness.
"Why?" Remo asked suspiciously.
"There's more room there."